“One night, when the moon was sinking, and all was still, a whistle, heard from below, struck on impatient ears. The bars had been sawn from the window by the eunuch, who was strong, and Wenza had cut the sheets into strips and tied them all together into a long rope; then one by one they went down, at first trembling, but quite brave and glad at last, as they fell into the arms of the Christian knights, Wenza into the arms of the eunuch, who took care of her--all save poor little Zeda. “When it came to her turn to descend, she had no courage to move, but stood at the window clasping her hands, and casting down wistful glances on her sisters. Now her fingers were on the cord, then she withdrew them; she saw her Christian knight beckoning to her; listened, listened as the stream called Zeda. Again she grasped the cord. In vain, her heart failed her. “‘Too late, too late, dear sisters,’ she cried. ‘Go forth and be happy. Think sometimes of the poor little prisoner left behind.’ And so,” concluded Zora, evidently at a loss how to finish her tale, “Ansa, the one-eyed king, her father, coming to visit his daughters, found her alone, and condemned her to die of hunger in the tower. “Poor little Zeda! But she still lives in the spirit of the fountain, when it boils and bubbles at night in the form of a Moslem princess, flower-crowned, singing to a silver lute, ‘Ay de mi Zeda!’” * * * * * A great clapping of hands, and many thanks to Zora for the story, greeted its conclusion. The little Gothic maiden, who was very fond of Zora, cried at the fate of the poor princess starved to death. She is sure none of them were comelier than Zora; and in this she speaks truly. An African sun had dyed her skin to a ruddier colour, given symmetry to her limbs, and a dark fire to her eyes. As a stranger Zora is by turns laughed at and petted. And as the setting sun now catches the swarthy ebony of her long hair, and blazes on the rich brown of her cheek, the difference between her and the rest suddenly strikes a lively little playmate, who is forming a pattern on the ground from the coloured petals of roses. “I should like to know,” says she, contemplating Zora, “which is prettier, dark Zora with the flashing eyes, or pale Florinda with the chestnut curls. In my opinion Zora is worth a whole bevy of us white-faced Goths.” “No, no, no,” echoes from all sides, while poor Zora, put to shame, blushes under tawny skin and retreats to the farthest corner of the garden. “I will not give the palm of beauty to Zora,” cries another voice, “but to Florinda. Where is she?” A general search is made for a long time in vain, but at last she is discovered fast asleep under a palm. Slumber has lent a lustre to her cheek, and her white bosom rises and falls under the transparent tissue of her bodice.